


Storm In a Bathtub

by erinacea



Series: Bathtub Blues [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fantasizing, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: Aziraphale can’t stop thinking about his time in the bathtub from Hell. Crowley sure had looked good in that bathtub.





	1. The Bathtub From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Another experiment. This time, I'm trying my hand at something a bit steamier, which was more difficult but definitely fun to write. Surprisingly, Aziraphale is not only very introspective, but also quite imaginative, at least when it comes to a certain demon.
> 
> The premise of this story probably doesn't make a lot of sense if you haven't seen the TV show. Wasn't the trial (or its solution) something added for the show?
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who commented on my previous story! Whenever the writing got tough on this one, your words of encouragement kept me going.
> 
> I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I had writing it! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale remembers his trial in Hell and spends a lot of time thinking about Crowley.

Angels didn’t actually need baths or showers – or visit the bathroom for _any_ reason, really. They could just miracle themselves clean; it was so much more efficient. Still, once in a while, Aziraphale liked to indulge. Sometimes, after a stressful day, he enjoyed drawing himself a bath and spending an hour or two relaxing with a good book. Miraculously, the water never grew cold and the books never got wet. Angels really had it easy sometimes. But lately it had gotten complicated. Ever since the trial, in fact, and not for the obvious reason.

If anyone had asked Aziraphale beforehand, he’d have expected that a trial by holy water in front of an audience of demons eagerly waiting to see him to dissolve would put anyone off of ever wanting to set foot into a bathtub ever again. However, that was not what had happened. Instead there had been certain aspects to the experience that, if he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind repeating.

~ * ~ * ~

It was another quiet day at the bookshop, and Aziraphale sat in his favourite arm chair and read. Nearby, Crowley, sprawled on the sofa, was flipping through one of the comic books that somehow seemed to end up at the bookshop entirely of their own accord.

Technically, the sofa belonged to Crowley, though for some reason he’d had it delivered to the bookstore instead of his own apartment. Aziraphale had been strongly against this addition because he’d been – justifiably, he thought – concerned it would make customers spend more time at the bookshop. But it had more than earned its keep by drawing _Crowley_ to the shop more often. For some reason that Aziraphale found hard to fathom, even the most avid book lovers among the mortals preferred to stay away from the demon.

Unfortunately, while Crowley’s company was certainly welcome, it also was becoming increasingly distracting. More often than not, Aziraphale found himself sneaking a glance over the top of his book at Crowley. The demon was wearing that jacket again. Wasn’t it getting a bit warm for leather? Aziraphale knew that as a former denizen of hell Crowley certainly didn’t mind the heat and sometimes even basked in it. But it was quite frustrating all the same…

~ * ~ * ~

It had been unsettling to be Crowley for a while. Standing trial in the demon’s place for preventing the Great War between Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale had been all too aware that any mistake would mean his utter annihilation, and this had heightened his senses to the extreme. His pulse had quickened and he had felt his blood rush through his veins. As his body prepared for battle, he had become aware of every muscle in Crowley’s body, every twitch on Crowley’s face. It had been a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the sensations of being Crowley. With every breath he found himself enveloped by the familiar smell of leather, the slight sulfuric tinge that all demons carried, and a kind of earthy scent that was entirely Crowley’s own.

And then they had asked him to step into a bathtub, and _that_ meant undressing… well, _Crowley_.

Strictly speaking, he could have done so fully clothed, and as _Aziraphale_ , modesty would have trumped vanity several times over. But that wouldn’t have been what _Crowley_ would have done. Despite Agnes Nutter’s warning, Aziraphale still hadn’t been sure that this whole holy water deal wasn’t some kind of elaborate test. So unless he wanted to raise suspicion, Aziraphale _did_ have to shed a few layers of clothing.

To his own embarrassment, he had realized that even amidst all the dread and apprehension, that idea had had a certain appeal to it. Aziraphale had always admired Crowley’s hands, and privately he had rather liked the fashion style of the 17th century that had so nicely accentuated the demon’s calves. Yet he’d never had the opportunity to see the demon in his natural state. Aziraphale had tried telling himself that such curiosity was only natural and that Crowley might even approve of his thirst for, well, enlightenment. But in the end, the realization that he was being watched by a demonic mob had rather stifled his excitement, and he’d compromised by keeping on the socks and underwear.

~ * ~ * ~

It was only when Crowley noisily cleared his throat that Aziraphale resurfaced from the memory. When Aziraphale glanced at the demon’s face, he was met with a questioningly raised eyebrow. He felt his cheeks grow warm and, belatedly, dropped his gaze back to the book in his lap.

“All right, angel?” the demon asked.

Aziraphale acted surprised. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Crowley’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Only you appear to be a bit stuck there.” His lips twitched as he nodded at the book. “I haven’t heard you turn the page in ages.”

Aziraphale internally cursed those sensitive ears. “Lost in thought,” he mumbled. At least Crowley hadn’t noticed where he’d been staring. Or if he had, was too polite to mention it...

On cue, the demon continued. “Say, is there something wrong with my clothes?” He was outright smirking now.

Of _course_ he was. Aziraphale swallowed a groan. He was feeling decidedly hot now himself and, cringing, sank deeper into his chair. “Aren’t you warm in that jacket?” he blurted out.

Crowley blinked in surprise. “The jacket? That’s what you’re wondering about?”

“Um, yes,” Aziraphale stammered. “It’s leather. And black. And it’s pretty hot outside. Aren’t you warm?” Right now, Aziraphale felt strongly reminded of the Middle Eastern deserts where Crowley and he had started out. He didn’t know about Crowley, but _he_ was certainly sweating rivers.

Crowley grinned speculatively. “Would it make you feel better if I were to take it off?”

The truthful answer to that was “yes, very much”, but of course Aziraphale was not going to admit that. In vain, he tried to come up with a reply that wouldn’t completely betray his motivations.

Luckily, Crowley didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to fully face Aziraphale, swung his legs onto the floor and, with a wicked grin, let the jacket slide down his shoulders and off his arms, all the while never taking his gaze off Aziraphale. Why was the demon enjoying this so much?!

Once he had divested himself of his jacket, Crowley rested his arms on his thighs and sent another crooked grin at Aziraphale, who was trying very hard not to stare. Underneath, Crowley was wearing a short-sleeved shirt – black, of course, with some kind of band logo that didn’t mean anything to Aziraphale – that allowed Aziraphale’s gaze to roam freely across Crowley’s biceps and forearms.

“Better?” the demon asked softly.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Yes,” he croaked.

Crowley grinned. He held the position for a while, allowing Aziraphale plenty of time to take it all in. Finally, with a saucy wink, the demon swung his legs back over the backrest of the sofa, carefully folded his jacket into a pillow, and, without apparent care in the world, continued reading his comic.

Aziraphale tried to follow his example but, once again, found it hard to focus.

~ * ~ * ~

That evening, Aziraphale stepped into the bathroom and sighed. Lately, he found himself spending a lot of time thinking about Crowley in ways that made him feel decidedly unclean. A bath certainly seemed like a good idea.

Once the tub was full, he balanced his mug of cocoa on its rim and gratefully sank into the warm water. It didn’t take long for the tension in his neck and shoulders to disperse. As Aziraphale relaxed, he felt his breathing and heart rate progressively slow down until he reached an almost meditative state.

Again, his mind returned to the memory of the trial. Once he had realized that the horrified demons would not dare come near him, he had started to enjoy himself. Given the elevated temperature of Hell, the cool water had actually felt nice and refreshing. The overall scenery might have been repulsive, but watching Crowley’s lithe body lounge in a tub full of water sure had been a pleasant view.

Aziraphale shook himself. Of course, it was only natural that his thoughts would regress to that moment. It had been a hazardous situation and it had been safer to focus on Crowley rather than on his surroundings. That was all. _That_ was why he was so obsessed about those moments spent in the bathtub in Hell.

_Not to be deterred, his mind eagerly conjured up an image of Crowley – the real Crowley – sprawling in a pool of warm water. Like Aziraphale had done, the demon probably would let his limbs dangle over the side, as he did so often with all kinds of non-aquatic furniture. But Crowley might also attempt to wriggle closer to the source of heat and try to submerge as much of his body as he could. And he’d definitely let his head loll and absentmindedly roll his neck and shoulders. He might even start hissing softly as he sometimes did in moments of supreme contentment._

The mental picture was shockingly clear. Vivid enough that Aziraphale found himself wishing he could watch Crowley taking a bath for real. Aziraphale bit his lips. He knew that was not going to happen. After all, did Crowley even _own_ a bathtub? If not, maybe he could invite him over…

No, this was not helping. He had hoped for a moment of rest and instead now found himself in a state of greater agitation than before. Clearly, relaxation led to temptation. He really needed to cleanse himself from these sinful thoughts. Resolutely, he reached for the sponge and started scrubbing.

_Unbidden, the reversed image of Crowley watching_ him _instead rose in his agitated mind. Aziraphale could easily picture the demon, somehow still wearing his wet undershirt, watching him with a lazy smile._

Aziraphale felt himself flush in a way that could not be attributed to the temperature of the water. Scrunching his eyes closed, he scrubbed vigorously at the hard to reach spot between his stowed wings in an attempt to remind himself that he was, in fact, an angel, and that such thoughts were strictly forbidden.

_Dream-Crowley was still watching him through half lidded eyes that were, for a change, not obscured by any glasses. Under the demon’s scrutiny, Aziraphale’s movements faltered and eventually stopped. Finally, Crowley took the sponge from Aziraphale’s unresisting hands. “Let me help you there, angel.”_

_For a moment, Aziraphale allowed himself to indulge in the sensation of Crowley gently brushing his back. He turned to watch the demon, who had a look of intense focus on his face. Aziraphale extended a trembling hand, filled with desire to reach out to the demon, maybe to grasp his hand or to simply touch him._

His hand met empty air, which caused the vision to burst like a bubble of soap. Aziraphale moaned, and he couldn’t even have said whether out of longing, disappointment, or desire. Bathing had become too dangerous, he decided. What he _really_ needed was a cold shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is basically finished and currently undergoing its (hopefully) final revision, so the rest should be following soon. Chapter 3, in particular, is giving me trouble. You'll see why when we get there. ;)


	2. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale visits Crowley's apartment, discovers some of the demon's hidden depths, and fantasizes some more.

Aziraphale purposefully kept himself busy over the next few days, so it wasn’t until the weekend that he met Crowley again. Crowley had gleefully pointed out that his own flat had full climate control and would be cooler than the bookshop. Aziraphale had some doubts that the demon had really believed his pitiful excuse, but in the interest of avoiding further teasing, he had agreed to spend the evening in Crowley’s apartment, for a change.

Personally, he much preferred the comfort of the bookshop and the cosiness of his own flat. Except for that one room of plants, everything about Crowley’s place felt lifeless and unwelcoming. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t care; he just preferred to _pretend_ he didn’t. Aziraphale knew for a fact that Crowley took great pleasure in the comforts of modern living, and he also could grow oddly attached to inanimate objects, such as his beloved Bentley. In fact, Aziraphale strongly suspected that every single item in the entire apartment somehow was of great personal relevance to the demon. But from the perspective of a casual observer wandering into his flat, all this would have been impossible to tell. As far as Aziraphale knew, the only other visitors apart from himself would be other demons checking on Crowley. He wondered what kind of message Crowley was trying to send.

Still, he enjoyed the demon’s company – too much so, lately. And aside from everything else, this visit also offered an opportunity to answer a question that had been bothering him… Which was why, when there was a lull in their conversation and Crowley was busy thumbing through some kind of gardening catalogue, Aziraphale resolutely got to his feet. Pretending to stretch his legs, he strolled up and down along the corridor. He had been meaning to casually peek through any doorway left ajar but, to his disappointment, found all doors firmly closed.

The second time he passed through the room that – since it featured a prominent desk – he’d come to think of as “the study”, Crowley called out to him. “Can I help you with anything?”

Desperately, Aziraphale sought to explain. “Well, I – er – I was looking for, that is to say–” He took a deep breath and pressed onward. “Er, do you have a bathtub? Room, I mean?” He coughed. “Bathroom?”

Crowley, who had turned in his oversized chair to face him, furrowed his brows in obvious confusion. “What on Earth do you need a bathroom for? You’re an angel…”

Despite the temperate climate, Aziraphale was sweating again. “I’d just like to have a look around…”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right, angel. What’s going on?”

Aziraphale sighed. “What’s wrong with wanting to see how you live? You’ve seen my place, after all, and I’ve only been here a few times. I’d like to, you know, explore a bit.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “We mostly stay in the bookshop, though,” he pointed out. “I haven’t seen much of your flat, either.”

Sighing, Aziraphale shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

The demon gave him a long stare. “I don’t know. It _did_ seem important a minute ago.” After a long pause, he finally pushed himself out of his chair. “Well, all right. Let me give you a tour.”

And a grand tour it was. Crowley started with their current room – the study – and then moved on through the conservatory – the room with all the plants – and kitchen, all of which Aziraphale had seen before. It soon became clear that Crowley was going to leave the bathroom for last, which left Aziraphale plenty of time to wonder whether his request had been worth it. Why did Crowley need such a big flat, anyway? He spent most of his free time in his Bentley or at the bookshop and only ever came here to sleep.

The _bedroom_ came as a surprise, in that this was a room that actually looked lived-in. As elsewhere, Crowley hadn’t bothered to decorate the concrete walls, but the luxurious four-poster bed almost made up for it. It looked both grand and comfortable and was covered in untidy heaps of comfy-looking black and red blankets. Clearly, Crowley didn’t hold with making his bed if it got in the way of dropping off to sleep at a moment’s notice.

Aziraphale had only witnessed the demon sleep on very rare occasions when he’d been too exhausted to worry about appearing vulnerable. He treasured those moments when Crowley let his guard down around him and tended to respond with a feeling of fierce protectiveness around the sleeping demon.

_He pictured the demon sprawled among the blankets in black silk pyjamas – obviously he’d choose black, and silk because… well, why not? His head was resting on one of his arms, and the other was draped over a pillow, almost hugging it close. His chest was rising and falling in slow, even rhythm, and the top of his pyjamas had slightly ridden up and revealed a section of smooth skin around his midriff. The peaceful image made Aziraphale feel warm all over. The bed was large enough to fit the two of them, and the tableau sure looked inviting…_

Wrenching his gaze away, Aziraphale saw Crowley leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed, and watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. Aziraphale frowned. Why did Crowley have to wear his sun glasses in _here_? After all, there wasn’t a single lamp in the entire apartment. Instead, everything was lit by a diffuse glow from various niches in the walls that probably had earned the architect some kind of award.

Searching around for a distraction, Aziraphale’s gaze fell on another TV set – identical to the one in the study – that was mounted on the wall next to an imposing wardrobe that Aziraphale didn’t have to open to know it was entirely filled with black outfits. Letting his gaze travel onwards, he spied a small nightstand almost covered by one of the sprawling blankets. To his surprise, he noticed an antique alarm clock – didn’t Crowley have one of those new-fangled sly phones now? – perched on a small stack of comic books.

On the whole, Aziraphale got the impression that this room might be the only one in the entire apartment where Crowley would allow himself to drop his façade. Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It _smelled_ of him, too. When he caught himself, Aziraphale hurried out, without so much as glancing at Crowley, before he could embarrass himself any further.

Maybe it was due to the impression of Crowley’s bedroom so fresh in his mind that, when Crowley took a deliberate detour to the statue that Aziraphale had always assumed to depict two angels in a wrestling match, it occurred to him for the first time that to the less naïve viewer it could also depict a much more intimate activity. He didn’t know where to look – not at the statue and certainly not at Crowley – as a hot sensation travelled up his neck and from there spread to his face and all over his body. Beside him he imagined he could _hear_ Crowley smirk. If the demon had been angling for a mortified reaction, he was clearly pleased with the result.

“I do have a bathroom,” Crowley finally concluded his tour, “but I only use it for the plants.”

The plants? Before Aziraphale could ask, Crowley pushed open yet another door, and it was like stepping into a rain forest. The walls were almost entirely covered in ivy, and only the occasional gap among the leaves revealed that the effect was achieved by a network of lattices installed all around the room. This made it hard to estimate the size of the room, though it was probably bigger than Aziraphale’s bathroom, but every single surface was covered with pots of greenery. There was no sign of any toilet bowl, sink or, indeed, bathtub. Crowley had left the piping in place but had rigged the apparatus to distribute water more evenly. Dozens of smaller pipes were winding themselves up the walls and across the ceiling, spraying drizzle from strategically placed minuscule holes.

On top of all that, Crowley had somehow managed to fabricate a tropical climate. Steam rose off the ground, and from somewhere overhead bright sunlight filtered through a canopy of leaves. It was only the knowledge that the sun had set hours ago that led Aziraphale to conclude that the light must be coming from some kind of lamp instead. But it was a convincing effect, all the same.

Aziraphale was deeply impressed. The whole room reminded him strongly of the Garden of Eden. If Crowley had decided to shapeshift into his snake form, it would not have felt out of place. Aziraphale had never realized that the demon missed the Garden so much, to even go so far as to create his own. He felt oddly touched that Crowley had decided to share this with him.

Still, he also felt a tiny bit disappointed because it was very obvious now that Crowley was not at all inclined to taking a bath or shower, ever. Oh well… At least this meant he could finally put _those_ thoughts to rest.

~ * ~ * ~

That night, instead of his usual night-time reading, Aziraphale stayed up thinking about the Garden. Crowley’s forest might need irrigation, but the Garden of Eden had been kept lush and vibrant entirely by an abundance of miracles. It had, after all, never rained until that fateful day when Aziraphale had first met Crowley.

Thinking about that first thunderstorm brought a smile to Aziraphale’s face. Neither of them had ever experienced rain before, but on impulse he had offered the demon shelter under his wing. Crowley, for his part, had inched closer until he was almost, but not quite, leaning against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Back then, Aziraphale had acted out of protective instinct. Now the memory sent a pleasurable tingle down his spine.

_Unbidden, the image of Crowley in his rain forest rose in his mind again. So what if he’d removed the bathtub? The entire room was like a gigantic outdoor shower._

_Aziraphale could easily picture Crowley, drenched from above, his wet underwear clinging tightly to his body. The demon raised his face in direction of the downpour, causing water to trail down his brow and neck. Tiny droplets were clinging to his hair and lashes and glistened in the evening sun._

_The beauty of this image took Aziraphale’s breath away. Then a daring thought occurred to him: Since this was a fantasy, did Crowley have to wear anything at all!?_

_For a moment, the image stayed frozen as Aziraphale tried to battle his own desires, his heart beating in his throat. His mental pushback felt weak even to himself, and desire won out, easily. In his mind’s eye, Crowley gave a satisfied smirk. With a lascivious wink, the demon reached for the hem of his shirt and started to slowly tease it off his chest._

All of a sudden, Aziraphale’s own pants felt much too tight, too.

~ * ~ * ~

Though it was still very early in the morning and expressly listed under “things not to do” in the house rules, Aziraphale decided that if he didn’t do this now, he’d never find the courage to try again. It only took a few minutes for the bathtub to fill with steaming water. Aziraphale took two steadying breaths and climbed into the tub. Instead of grabbing one of the waiting books as he usually would, he leant back, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible, closed his eyes and, deliberately, thought of Crowley.

In theory, there was a clear division between angels and demons. Angels were acting as the forces of Good, and demons opposing them as forces of Evil. But that description just didn’t apply to _Crowley_. At worst, the demon delighted in creating minor nuisances for the humans, but he had never liked to cause actual suffering and took no joy in seeing innocents come to harm. However, none of that changed the fact that they were, despite everything, still an _angel_ and a _demon_. Crowley had stopped caring about the difference aeons ago, but for Aziraphale, for the longest time even friendship had been unthinkable. That only had changed when, in defying Armageddon, they’d formed a “side of their own”, as Crowley had called it. Thoughtfully, Aziraphale drew patterns into the soapy surface of the water.

Not for the first time the thought occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley might be tempting him on purpose, using his demonic wiles to play haywire with Aziraphale’s senses and emotions. But no, that didn’t seem right. He discarded the idea almost as soon as it had appeared. Aziraphale had spent too much time around Crowley not to notice when the demon was scheming.

He sighed. In truth, Crowley hadn’t done anything except be his own entrancing, alluring, fascinating self. Aziraphale had been trying hard to ignore the obvious, but with Crowley featuring so prominently in his recent daydreams, it was impossible to deny the truth any longer. Somehow, and entirely without meaning to or even noticing until now, he had fallen for the Fallen angel. He wondered whether there would be a price to pay. Would it mean that he, too, would Fall? If he did, would it hurt? And if that brought him closer to Crowley, wouldn’t it be worth it?!

Dejectedly, Aziraphale let his head slide under water. The problem was that, all his teasing notwithstanding, Crowley was unlikely to feel the same way. Oh, clearly, the demon enjoyed his company. They spent a lot of time together, after all. They’d been talking, and occasionally drinking, together for millennia, and a few centuries ago had started going out for lunch or dinner, or even the theatre once in a while. But he’d never seemed interested in Aziraphale _specifically_. Not that way, at least. He’d been first, though – by quite a few centuries – to describe them as friends. It had taken a long time for Aziraphale to come around to that idea, and though Crowley had seemed hurt by each new rejection, miraculously, he’d stuck around.

It had taken a narrowly averted apocalypse for Aziraphale to realize how much the demon meant to him. So here they were. Just when they had finally established themselves as “best friends”, somehow that was no longer enough for Aziraphale. In all honesty, Crowley had every right to reject any advances. Maybe, if he’d be as patient as Crowley had been waiting for their friendship, the demon would one day return his feelings. Aziraphale grimaced. Falling might be easier.

He surfaced with a gasp and pushed his soggy hair out of his eyes. His thoughts were moving in circles, and, anyway, he was merely putting off what he’d been planning to do. He took another deep breath. If the Almighty wanted to strike him with lightning, he was already conveniently placed in a bathtub. An easy target, really.

_Closing his eyes, he pictured Crowley climbing into the bathtub – in his imagination, more of a hot tub – with him. A sensual smile was playing around the demon’s lips as he settled next to Aziraphale, their shoulders and knees pressing into each other. Aziraphale was not at all sure about the logistics involved, but they were angelic beings and somehow they would make it work._

_He wanted –_ needed _– closer contact, so he adjusted his fantasy to have the demon lean over and pull him into a passionate kiss. Aziraphale found himself arching his back in unconscious desire to lean into this imaginary kiss. It was missing the obvious element of Crowley's actual presence, but Aziraphale's heart was racing all the same._

 _Finally, breathing heavily, and with great deliberation, Aziraphale_ touched _himself. It was easy to imagine he was touching Crowley instead, and Crowley him. Aziraphale moaned. It wasn’t like he’d never tried this before – he’d been curious, after all – but somehow getting Crowley involved, even if only in his mind, made everything feel more intense._

“Crowley”, he gasped and sped up his strokes.

~ * ~ * ~

Later, when Aziraphale towelled himself dry, he realized, somewhat to his own surprise, that he had neither been struck by lightning nor did he feel even the slightest tug in the direction of Hell. While that certainly was a relief, he was unsure about the implications. Did it mean the Almighty was willing to overlook an angel having lustful thoughts about a demon? And if so, would the real thing be acceptable, too? Or was that kind of behaviour only allowed as long as he kept it strictly to himself?

Unfortunately, the only person he could ask this kind of questions was Crowley, and he could hardly ask _him_. Or could he? He didn’t have to say he was lusting after _him_ , did he?

Of course, there was the danger that Crowley would see right through him. Or maybe he already knew? That idea made Aziraphale cringe. He had been rather obviously distracted the last few weeks, and Crowley had even commented on it a few times. He sighed. At the very least, tonight’s explorations had provided an outlet for _that_.


	3. Existential Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale confronts Crowley. Their conversation gets rather... heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter. I very much hope the wait was worth it. ;)

Aziraphale nervously paced circles outside Crowley’s door. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was even here. Was he really going to tell Crowley that he… what? _Desired_ him? _Loved_ him?

His more rational side argued that this would be madness. If he was lucky, the demon would let him down gently and pretend the conversation had never happened. However, if he was unlucky, Crowley would shy away from any mention of _feelings_ and he could lose him forever. On second thought, those were hardly the best or worst possible outcomes. His imagination had had a lot of practice lately, so _best-case_ , Crowley would be as enthusiastic about becoming lovers as he was – after all, there had to be a reason he kept that statue around – but worst-case… _Worst-case_ , Aziraphale’s confession would spring a trap laid thousands of years ago…

No. Aziraphale shook his head. No, that was _not_ what this was about. He _trusted_ Crowley. Crowley, who had saved his life a countless number of times despite being terrified of what Hell would do to him if they ever found out. Crowley, who trusted _him_ with his flaws and worries and endearing little quirks. Crowley, who was the only friend he’d ever had.

He couldn’t lose Crowley. But he couldn’t go on living like this, either. Aziraphale turned to glance towards the elevator. There was the safe option: Wait, stay friends, enjoy the daily torture of spending time with Crowley. An eternity of longing and unfulfilled lust extending before him… The mere thought made his insides squirm.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Quickly, before doubts could override his sudden resolve, he leaned on the doorbell, which shrilled inside the apartment. Almost immediately, he regretted the impulse, but it was too late to back out. Aziraphale took another steadying breath. He didn’t have to say _anything_ , really. He’d just wanted to see his friend and ask some general questions about what Crowley thought was the Almighty’s opinion on lust. Just general chitchat among friends. _Oh Lord…_

Nothing happened. As much as he strained his ears, there was no sound from inside the apartment. For good measure, he rang the bell again.

 _He’s not home._ It was a sobering thought that somehow managed to be edged with relief and disappointment at the same time. Was this a sign? Maybe this was the Almighty’s way of sparing him dreadful heartache…

 _Wait._ What if something had _happened_ to Crowley? What if Hell had finally caught up with him, and he was even now lying helpless, injured, or…? _Don’t even think it!_ Aziraphale’s heart was racing. He’d have to–

He only dared to breathe again when he finally heard a shuffling sound in the corridor beyond. There was the click of the lock and then Crowley opened the door. He blinked blearily at Aziraphale. “What’s going on? Why are you up so early?”

Aziraphale’s mouth had gone dry. Crowley had clearly just rolled out of bed and was not at all styled to his usual standards. The dishevelled state of his hair was surprisingly attractive. He was barefoot and wearing a loose-fitting pair of pyjama pants hanging low on his hips. But most importantly, he wasn’t wearing anything else. Aziraphale found himself ogling the demon’s chest and had to fight the sudden urge to reach out to touch the tousled hair.

Yawning widely, the demon didn’t appear to notice. “Well? Are you coming in or not?”

As he stepped into the corridor, a wave of heat struck Aziraphale. The apartment was reminiscent of a furnace, making it hard to breathe. Only now Aziraphale remembered that Crowley preferred to sleep in the warmth. Other than his slit pupils, this was a reminder of his reptilian origins that Crowley actively embraced.

That also explained the demon’s state of undress. In comparison, Aziraphale was vastly overdressed. He wondered what might happen if he started disrobing, too. If Crowley turned out to be disinterested, he could always blame it on the heat. Aziraphale nervously loosened his bow tie.

Ahead of him, Crowley paused and half-turned as if to say something. But then, apparently changing his mind, he simply snapped his fingers instead and continued onwards. Immediately, the air condition started to whir. Given Crowley’s high-tech equipment, it would only take a short time for the temperature to return back to normal. Aziraphale sighed. _So much for that idea…_ He let his fingers drop from where they’d been fiddling with the top button of his waistcoat.

His courage momentarily subdued, Aziraphale followed Crowley into the kitchen, where the demon placed two mugs into his fancy coffee machine and pressed some buttons to get the machine warmed up and execute the usual program. Two mugs, Aziraphale noticed muzzily. Crowley lived alone, yet he’d bought a machine that could make coffee and tea – or hot cocoa – simultaneously. Did it have anything to do with him? And if so, was that a _friendly_ gesture, or …?

Since the demon was still busy tweaking the machine, this gave Aziraphale a good view of Crowley’s back. He stared at the angled shoulders, itching to let his fingers follow the groove just below the shoulder blades, where the demon’s wings would protrude when they weren’t tucked safely away into the ethereal plane. Unaware of Aziraphale’s gaze, Crowley stretched languidly, which gave Aziraphale ample chance to admire the play of the demon’s muscles. He sighed. So much for trying to be just friends. How could he have been so blind?

Still blinking sleep out of his eyes, Crowley finally turned around to hand Aziraphale a steaming mug of tea. “Do you have any idea how late it is?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale responded automatically. “Um, 9 a.m., I think. I’m really sorry about waking you. I –”

Crowley held up a hand. With theatrically closed eyes he took a big gulp of what must be scalding hot coffee. When he finally opened his eyes again, he looked noticeably more alert than before.

“All right then. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Rattled, Aziraphale decided to follow the safer version of his script. “Well, I- I just wanted to visit a… friend.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Because we haven’t seen each other in so long,” he drawled.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were burning again. It was hard not to stare at Crowley’s chest, or stomach, or anywhere really. He couldn’t even meet the demon’s eyes. “Er, well, not so long ago.”

Crowley snorted. “We spent yesterday drinking late. I thought the rule was after drinking late you don’t bother getting up before noon.”

Aziraphale found it difficult to focus on anything while staring at Crowley’s bare chest. To distract himself, he took a sip of his tea. “Um. Sorry.”

Crowley grinned, his eyes dancing mischievously. “Can’t say I mind. Miss me already, eh?”

Aziraphale choked on his tea and started coughing, spraying tea all over the kitchen. Crowley sprang to thump him on the back, and the sudden physical contact made Aziraphale’s knees buckle. He grabbed hold of the counter and, in an attempt to compose himself, turned to carefully place his mug on the kitchen counter.

When, still gasping for breath, he turned to face Crowley again, the demon was watching him with a worried frown. “What’s going on, angel? You seem unusually skittish today.”

Aziraphale bit his lips. “I, er, had some questions of existential nature.”

Crowley groaned. “I can’t deal with existential questions in the morning! Can’t we discuss those over a bottle of wine?” He cocked his head to one side. “Why didn’t you ask yesterday?”

Aziraphale was making a conscious effort to look anywhere but at Crowley’s chest. “I only thought of it last night,” he mumbled.

“Let me guess. ‘Why are we here?’ ‘What’s the point of it all?’ ‘Does the Almighty still care?’ Those kind of questions?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Broadly speaking, yes. But maybe a tad more specific than that.”

Crowley downed the rest of his coffee, then placed his mug back into the machine for a refill. Finally leaning back against the counter, he crossed his arms and glanced side-ways at Aziraphale. “Well,” he prompted. “Go on, then.”

Somehow the kitchen didn’t seem the right place to be having this conversation. Not with Aziraphale in a full suit and Crowley only half-dressed in loosely fitting pyjamas.

“Er,” Aziraphale began. “I was wondering what, uh, the Almighty might be thinking about, er, lust.”

Crowley blinked. “That’s a heavy topic for 9 a.m. What brought this on? Something you read?”

That certainly was a reasonable assumption. Many an hours-long philosophical debate had been sparked by an idea he’d come across in some obscure text.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I was wondering what the Almighty might be thinking about, erm, _us_ committing the sin of lust. _Angels_ , that is,” he clarified hastily.

Crowley’s face had frozen in a strange expression. “Us,” he echoed softly.

“ _Angels_ ,” Aziraphale repeated weakly. That squirming feeling was back and eating him up from the inside out.

Crowley ignored this interjection. “So this is not an abstract question at all?” he queried, still with that far-away look on his face.

Aziraphale wrung his hands, but all he managed to say was, “Um.”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale was determined not to look at him, ever again. He could feel his face burn. Now would be a good moment for Hell to claim him…

“Angel,” the demon repeated, more insistently. He had moved to stand directly in front of Aziraphale now, who once again found himself mesmerized by Crowley’s chest. As if in trance, he raised his hand to touch it, but stilled before he could betray himself.

“Aziraphale, look at me,” Crowley pressed. “ _Please..._ ”

Slowly Aziraphale lifted his eyes. There was no way he could resist that pleading tone; there just wasn’t. His heart was fluttering madly in his chest as if looking for a way to escape.

Crowley steadily held his gaze. His yellow eyes were wide and unguarded and they betrayed an unexpected depth of emotion. There was fear and longing and confusion and hope, all mixed together in unholy alliance. “Angel,” Crowley breathed. He captured Aziraphale’s half-lifted hand in his own and pressed it firmly against his chest. His skin felt hot under Aziraphale’s fingers, and Aziraphale could feel the demon’s heart thump in an erratic staccato that matched his own heartbeat.

“Crowley,” he whispered, awe-struck.

Crowley _kissed_ him. His lips felt firm and hot and inviting and, somehow, above all, familiar. When Aziraphale gasped in surprise, Crowley probingly flicked his tongue against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale felt like he was standing dangerously close to an erupting volcano. Hot air was searing his lungs and liquid fire was coursing through his veins. And yet, it was a pleasurable kind of heat. Already, he couldn’t get enough of it. This felt better than _any_ of his fantasies.

Swaying, Aziraphale made a grab for the demon’s shoulders and hungrily returned the kiss, to which Crowley responded by embracing him tightly. Aziraphale, for his part, revelled in finally letting his hands roam all over Crowley’s body, taking the time to explore the demon’s face and shoulders and chest. He was dimly aware of Crowley clawing at his own clothes and that, too, felt _right_. When he gave one of the demon’s nipples an experimental tweak, Crowley reacted with a guttural growl. “You’re wearing entirely too much clothing, angel.”

Somehow the demon had managed to unbutton Aziraphale’s suit and waistcoat, and Aziraphale shrugged out of both of them without paying any heed to where they landed. When Crowley refocused his attention on the tiny buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, growling in frustration, Aziraphale made short work of them himself.

Having their naked chests pressed flush against each other, skin against skin, felt heavenly. Aziraphale could feel his blood pool in the region of his groins, and when Crowley started grinding into him, it was clear he was similarly aroused.

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale eyed Crowley’s flushed body. He had been so distracted by the abundance of visible skin that he had all but forgotten about what was still hidden. Licking his lips, he deliberately let his hand rest at the hem of Crowley’s pyjamas, paused, and slowly let it travel downwards. As he palmed the demon’s hardness, Aziraphale felt his lips curve into an uncharacteristically wicked smile.

Crowley jerked and hissed, “Azzz…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about fading out like that. I had planned to let the scene go on a bit longer, but I really don't feel comfortable writing erotica, or whatever this is. (On the plus side, this means you get to decide what happens... :P)


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More kisses and cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cuteness overload! :)

Afterwards, as they lay tangled on the kitchen floor only marginally cushioned by their – well, mostly his – clothes haphazardly strewn about, Aziraphale felt too happy to speak. The air had noticeably cooled down and it actually was starting to get a bit chilly, but he had no intention of moving. It helped that he had his very own heat source pressed against his body. Crowley lay nestled against his chest and shoulder, his legs entwined with Aziraphale’s, and one arm possessively curled around Aziraphale’s waist. His eyes were closed and his lashes fluttered with every breath. Had he fallen asleep again?

Watching Crowley with a fond smile, Aziraphale gently ran his fingers through the demon’s hair. It felt as sweaty as his own and, like every part of the demon, was curiously warm to the touch. In response, Crowley wriggled impossibly closer and started hissing in contentment. _Not sleeping then…_ Aziraphale beamed. Shrouded in feelings of bliss, he continued to tenderly stroke Crowley’s head.

After a while, Crowley mumbled something that Aziraphale didn’t quite catch. At his questioning hum, Crowley glanced up through half-lidded eyes. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he enunciated more clearly.

Aziraphale froze. It was true; he’d been too preoccupied worrying about Crowley’s idea of friendship to ever wonder whether the demon might be wanting more.

Crowley pouted and demandingly nudged at Aziraphale’s hand. “Please don’t stop doing that…” he hissed. A warm glow settled in Aziraphale’s chest. He’d had no idea the demon could be so affectionate. Smiling widely, he resumed his caresses, and Crowley closed his eyes again with a satisfied sigh.

Aziraphale felt he owed the demon an apology. He had been moving dreadfully slowly, after all. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured. “I- I’ve been so blind. I should have realized sooner.”

Crowley lifted himself up on an elbow to gaze deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes. His pupils were as wide as his smile. “It’s all right, angel. I could have said something, too.” He reached up to gently stroke Aziraphale’s cheek. “I just never thought I’d have a chance, outside of my dreams.”

His _dreams_. Aziraphale’s heart swelled. Was _that_ why the demon slept so much? With a beatific smile, he pulled Crowley into another heated kiss.

When, much later, they pulled apart again, Crowley grinned wickedly at Aziraphale. “I think we can consider your question answered.”

_What question?_ Aziraphale had all but forgotten how the morning had started. Noticing his confusion, Crowley continued brightly, “Clearly, the Almighty doesn’t give a _damn_ about us lusting, or sinning, or any combination thereof.”

This startled a laugh out of Aziraphale. “Clearly,” he repeated huskily. There was so much he wanted to try. They’d get around to the bathroom eventually…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment. You might also want to check out my other (Good Omens) stories, too. :)


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